


a kiss with a fist: round two

by October_rust



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon, Jon and an archery practice gone awry. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/389858"> <i>a kiss with a fist (is better than none)</i> </a></p><p> </p><p>(A/N: reposting after the story got deleted due to some software malfunction)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a kiss with a fist: round two

“Damn it!”

Scant inches above the bull's eye the arrow had struck, its grey fletchings vibrating with the force of impact. A common bowman would have been satisfied with the result; aspiring to mastery, Theon was disgusted with his own clumsiness. Quickly, he pulled another shaft from the quiver, notched, drew and loosed … only to miss yet again.

The simmering anger was not helping any in improving his aim. Neither was the presence of the silent audience particularly encouraging: as bad luck would have it, the bastard had chanced to intrude on his archery practice. Now, leaning against the stable wall, Snow was observing the pitiful efforts to hit the target.

Discomfiture and irritation stiffened Theon's shoulders, and his grip on his prized bow was uncharacteristically awkward. _It's all your fault, bastard._ As of late, he and Snow had been coming to blows at the merest provocation, disrupting the training sessions and driving poor Ser Rodrik mad. _Squabbling like children!_ the old master-at-arms would scold. Mercifully, the layers of mail and leather hid the tell-tale signs that something else besides the unruly tempers was prompting the brawls.

This was the worst part; no matter how many insults were traded, how many punches thrown, rage never failed to inexplicably blend with the stirrings of arousal.

As the feathers brushed his ear, the third arrow set to the bowstring, Theon thought back to the event that had started the whole mess between Snow and himself. That memorable day when, goaded by the japes about Robb, the bastard had pinned him down, breathing fury straight into Theon's laughing face … 

Oh, the smirk had faltered the instant the intimate press of hips could no longer be ignored. It had sent a strange thrill through him, his pulse quickening in the nervous anticipation of an unknown danger. And Snow … Theon's fingers tightened, the finely-crafted wood digging into his palm … the intensity of Snow's regard had been truly frightening. So predatory, Theon had fancied a hint of amber lurked in the dark irises, lending them an unsettling resemblance to that of the wolf's. 

What had happened next was even more baffling. Oddly powerless under Snow's gaze, Theon had lain completely still, blood welling on his bottom lip. A prey about to be devoured, yet foolish enough to taunt the hunter, he had probed at the torn flesh, the slight movement of his tongue catching the bastard's attention. An invisible line had just been crossed then, and suddenly Snow's mouth was almost …

Metal rattled against stone. Shocked, Theon watched the broken shaft fall to the ground. _There was not a gust of wind. How … ?_ Understanding dawned, a curse succinctly expressed the frustration. _Wonderful, Greyjoy. You could not have botched this shot more, had you drunk yourself blind._

“Go on, Snow. Laugh.” _I know you want to._ And, since the bastard did not deign to answer, Theon glared at him, venom lacing his words. “No? Then get your arse over here. Let's see whether you shall fare any better.”

Cool amusement shining in the grey eyes, Snow complied. The bow was thrust into the bastard's palm, the sight of those long fingers on his beloved weapon serving to exacerbate Theon's foul mood. Somehow, his thoughts drifted to the today's scuffle, and the subsequent punishment meted out by Ser Rodrik. 

“The whole morning spent on cleaning the armoury, polishing swords and mail, enduring your company, Snow… And that pretty wench from the kitchens was waiting for me in the stables. But no, of course all I got to see was your boring mug, instead of some really fine tits. What a waste.”

Still infuriatingly collected, Snow paid Theon no heed, his gaze not wavering from the target as he let fly. The arrow landed closer to the centre than any of Theon's shafts, a feat that brought a subtly mocking note to Snow's voice. “Maybe if you cared less about finding your way under women's skirts, you could actually manage a passable shot? Try to think with your head once in a while, Greyjoy.”

“Passable? Hand me the bow, bastard.”

With his pride at stake, there was no room for blunders: the discharged arrow cut the air and sank neatly into the bull's eye. 

“Beat that, Snow.”

The challenge was accepted; a picture of strength and grace, Snow pulled the bowstring taut. The ease with which he was navigating the territory Theon had ever considered his exclusive preserve was grating, and not even the recent coup had soothed the sting of humiliation. No, he could not allow Snow to walk away victorious, not whilst he himself was flustered, unable to forget about the shameful incidents from the training yard. _So nothing but your brother's name on my lips makes you snarl? Very well, bastard._

Thus, to erode his opponent's composure, Theon pressed his palm between Snow's shoulder blades, pleased to feel the spine straighten, the body assume an unconsciously defensive stance. Not quite a shiver, but a promising start all the same.

“Women's skirts, huh? I am wondering about your advice, Snow.” Theon drawled, stepping closer, the muscles under his hand tensing further at the proximity. “A master bowman shouldn't afford himself any distractions, correct?”

“Yes,” Snow admitted, striving to sound aloof, even as his body betrayed that the wall of ice was crumbling, the fire ready to burst forth. “A good advice for you, judging from how lacking your aim is.”

“And your priceless counsel comes from vast experience, no doubt.” Theon continued, undeterred. “I admire you, truly. Such discipline, so many wicked thoughts to keep at bay.”

“Especially since …” Theon's whisper ruffled the strands of black hair, his lips nigh on grazing the earlobe. “… your most sinful fantasies are not about some buxom wench, but your own brother, isn't that so, Snow?”

How gratifying it was to see the poisonous words sink in and anger being unleashed. The bow and arrow were dropped to the ground, Snow's fingers coiled into fists – the clear indications of defeat, even before the first blow was delivered. _As always, you prove me right, Snow. All I have to do is mention Robb, and your restraint is gone … Too much truth in my japes to your liking?_

There was no time to savour the triumph, however, for splitting pain exploded in his jaw. Bloody hell, the bastard did have a nasty punch, Theon had to grant him that. Moreover, despite the fury, Snow was not lashing out blindly, which filled Theon with a vague sense of unease. It was almost as if he, not Snow, had fallen into a snare, overly certain as he was of his victory.

Misgivings notwithstanding, a retreat would be craven. Doubts were therefore blotted out by aggression, and for the next few moments Theon concentrated on bruising Snow's ribs and chin. Ultimately, though, the bastard repaid him in kind with such fierceness that Theon staggered into the stable wall. 

Scarce had he gathered his wits, than he was trapped against the stone, with strong fingers collaring the base of his throat and cold, sharp object resting over his windpipe. _The arrow,_ Theon realized, dumbfounded. _When did he ..._

“You were saying something about me and Robb?” Menace rippled through Snow's otherwise calm voice. 

Theon snorted, willing himself not to flinch at the way their bodies were aligned, chest to chest, groin to groin. Odd, to perceive this closeness as the primary source of danger, when the arrow could well pierce his jugular, should the bastard's hand slip. “Yes, I was. And I can tell how very fond you are of hearing about Robb. You're hard, Snow.”

The bastard neither blushed, nor pulled back in mortification. Instead, a glint came into his dark eyes. “So are you, Greyjoy.”

A caustic retort leapt to Theon's tongue, only to be cut short as the shaft ventured upward, its tip lightly prickling the skin. The vulnerable underside of his jaw, still raw from Snow's fist, the chin, the mouth … here the arrowhead lingered, playfully caressing the lower lip. 

He inhaled shakily, bewilderment warring with wrath. And yet, underneath the conflicted emotions, the spark of lust had indeed been kindled, just like during his sword fights with the bastard. _No._ Spurred on by the memory of the embarrassing mishaps, he grabbed at Snow's wrists.

The pressure on Theon's throat subsided; a cruel, bone-grinding clench of fingers forced Snow to let go of the arrow. Then, they were grappling for the upper hand, their jagged breaths loud in the surrounding stillness. 

To Theon's indignation, Snow overpowered him for the second time in a row. 

“Such a sore loser you are, Greyjoy.”

Loser? Apparently, a lesson in how bastards ought to address their betters was necessary. _I will show you 'loser,' you smug piece of shit._ Before he could comprehend what exactly he was doing, his rage impossible to tether in, Theon had his lips on Snow's.

_Teach you to shut up, bastard._

It was but an act of retribution, full of scraping teeth and taste of blood. Perhaps exacted in quite a forward manner … what did it matter, though? As long as he was the one asserting his dominance, Theon was past caring about propriety.

Greedily, he swallowed Snow's noise of protest, and, seeing a chance to free himself, bucked against the body caging his. The well-timed manoeuvre caused his adversary to reel a bit; still, the bastard regained his footing and jerked Theon closer.

All of a sudden, the easy conquest became a duel. Firm, demanding lips covered Theon's, a tongue slid insolently into his mouth. _What ... What in the …_ Yet, as inconceivable as it seemed, Lord Snow, that paragon of honour and dullness, was not above playing dirty. 

_Oh, you son of a …_

A surge of anger dispersed the momentary daze, and Theon buried a hand in the black locks, gave a sharp tug. But Snow was no biddable creature to be brought to heel. If anything, he grew more insistent, his fingers clutching like a vice at Theon's nape and biceps.

Well, such a dare couldn't be left unanswered, now could it? With a muffled oath, Theon pushed at Snow's chest, outrage lending him enough strength to break from the hold. And thus their struggle was resumed: punches, shoves, the stabs of pain, bodies being knocked into the wall. The steps of a familiar dance … except for a dark, tantalizing undercurrent, which compelled Theon and Snow to lock their lips together far too ardently, rather than settle the score with their fists alone.

Trading blows and rough, urgent kisses, they stumbled into the stables. Nary a groom in sight; beyond a few nervous whinnies and stomps, the horses didn't appear upset by the commotion. Those details registered as if through a thick fog, though, and Theon spared the surroundings but a cursory glance, caught up as he was in his peculiar battle with Snow.

Eventually, he found himself in an empty stall, grinding his hips against Snow's. How many wenches had he brought here for a quick tumble in the hay? Gods … Did it imply that … _No. Not the same,_ a desperate reassurance flitted in the back of Theon's mind. _A means to put the cheeky sod in his place, nothing else._

Clinging to the thought, he hooked a foot behind Snow's ankle. Immediately, even as Snow started to topple over, strong hands seized Theon by the collar, the grip so unforgiving they both went down in a tangle of limbs. Then, all it took was an abrupt twist, and he was flat on his back, with Snow's thighs clamped firmly against his sides.

Panting, he stared up at Snow. The bastard's jaw was set, his features fixed into a stony mask. At odds with the impassive face, however, were the eyes, in which wrath and hunger were blazing. _The eyes of a feral wolf._

A shiver chased down Theon's spine. For weeks, this furious glare, the feel of the muscular body draped over his, had been invading his dreams. _Why not scratch the itch and be rid of it, once and for all?_ Sometimes a drastic cure was the most effective one, and this … this _thing_ between the two of them had to be resolved, lest it escalate into a permanent madness. Obeying the impulse, he reached around Snow's neck to draw the bastard down. 

Snow didn't resist – in fact, he eagerly sought Theon's lips. There was no artistry to his kiss, just frustrated, long-denied passion, finally let loose from its chain. _Yes._ Theon's head spun. No thrill could ever compare to the rush of lust and power at having Snow like that – all wild and reckless, his precious honour abandoned.

“Touch me.”

The words, murmured against Snow's mouth, came out wrong – far too needy, not carrying enough command. Worse yet was how impatient Theon was to peel away Snow's leathers and shirt, to glide his palms across the revealed expanse of wide shoulders, hard chest and stomach. 

He groaned, hips arching up, when a trembling hand fumbled with his laces, then delved inside to grasp his cock. Gratitude mingled with arousal. For all the earlier barbs and punches, Snow was not so cruel as to make him beg for release. Or was it merely competitiveness on Snow's part, not kindness?

Whatever the reason, it was only fair to reciprocate, and Theon unlaced Snow's breeches, the wave of desire robbing him of his usual deftness. Gods, he was shaking like some callow boy about to bed his first woman. Still, despite his clumsiness, the smooth flesh pulsed and swelled in his fist. Curling his fingers, he stroked up and down, till Snow could not smother a moan.

The hoarse sound reverberated through him, straight to his cock, intensifying the ache. He had to hear more of those noises, drink in that intoxicating desperation. His hand slid faster over the thick length, smeared the droplets gathering at the tip. In answer, Snow tightened his fingers, the pressure almost too much to bear. 

Together, they plunged into the chaos of sensations, their movements increasingly erratic. Another gasp was wrenched from Theon, as Snow's lips quested across his throat, the teeth grazing at the spot where the arrowhead had been pressed. Teasing … and leaving visible marks. _Staking a claim,_ an absurd suspicion cut through the haze. 

Then, all coherent thought fled, for Snow was kissing him again, hard and deep. Coupled with the merciless pulls and squeezes, Theon did not stand a chance against such an assault. He cried out into Snow's mouth, his body yielding to pleasure, the muscles coiling as though to stop what was happening. It was a folly, of course, since the tide pushing him over the precipice was inexorable. 

But still he fought tooth and nail – after all, salt and iron were coursing in his veins, inciting him to defiance, even when the battle had already been doomed. In a hopeless bid to salvage his pride, he twisted his head, bit at Snow's neck. If he was to drown, Theon was taking Snow down with himself.

The shard of pain, so unexpected, sufficed to unravel what little remained of Snow's self-control. Back going rigid, a choked moan escaping him, he thrust one final time and spilled his seed over Theon's palm.

For a lengthy moment, they simply lay together, too exhausted to concern themselves with putting some distance between their bodies. It felt good, this lazy aftermath, and Theon didn't mind Snow's arm thrown across his waist, nor soft lips covering his in a slow, languorous kiss. Maybe they could stay entwined like that a bit longer, share the warmth …

Stay? His thoughts stumbled to a halt, a fiery blush spread over his cheeks. _Way to go, Greyjoy. Yes, cuddle with the bastard … what am I, a lovesick wench?_ Coldness seeped into his bones as he considered the compromising position he and Snow were in. Should someone walk in …

Ruthlessly, he shoved the bastard off himself, sat up and wiped his hand clean upon the straw. Neither of them spoke while they proceeded to straighten their clothes. No serious damage had been done to the shirts and breeches, but the bruises on their skin … oh, those would be vivid for days, reminding them of the fierce, passionate kisses, the rush of blood, hips rocking together …

“Well,” Theon broke the silence, refusing to dwell on the disturbingly tempting images. “Thanks for the fuck, Snow. Now you'll know what to do with Robb, once you get him naked in your bed.”

Fortunately, mockery came to his rescue, as sturdy as an iron shield, aiding him in recovering his focus. The nervous tightness in his chest receded. A single lapse, to banish the bizarre cravings – that's what this whole incident with Snow had been about. 

His confidence was further bolstered by the horror dawning in Snow's eyes. _Ah, the noble Jon Snow has awakened at last._ Any minute, an adamant denial would be uttered, transporting them back on the familiar ground, where naught but pure, uncomplicated animosity existed. 

But Snow's gaze narrowed, and the carefully mended defences were torn down anew. 

“Same old song about me and Robb? No, Greyjoy. This is not how it's going to end.”

A hand shot out to snag Theon's collar. In the next blink, he was held fast, Snow's face an inch or so from his. Then, even that narrow space shrank, and his breath was stolen away in a bruising kiss, swift and deadly like a dagger to the heart.

“Don't underestimate me.” Lips brushed over his, almost tenderly, when he sagged into the embrace. “And don't think I'll meekly bend to your will. Ever.”

With that, Snow got to his feet. Kneeling, eyes closed, pulse drumming wildly, Theon listened to the departing footsteps, for once utterly at a loss for words.

A mixture of excitement, anger and grudging admiration churned within him, sharpened his muddled thoughts.

_You're right, Snow. This most certainly isn't how it's going to end._


End file.
